Burying My Dead by Bettie Lennett Denny

Author:Bettie Lennett Denny
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: love, mystery, discrimination, genealogy, 1800s, portland or, womens suffrage, oregon history, contemporary themes, lone fir cemetery
Publisher: Bettie Lennett Denny

Chapter 19 ~ Emerson Asher

What a lout! Monty returned to the cemetery to make amends with Simeon, no doubt hoping to renew his easy access to food and drink, only to find me. Alone.

“Got you all fer myself, do I? These eyes enjoy a good-lookin’ woman.”

I confess to screwing up my face in a most unladylike fashion to make myself as unattractive as possible. I spoke plainly and firmly. I wished him to leave immediately and return when Simeon was present. Perhaps that was the wrong tact as he drew himself closer to me, so that even a slender book could not be passed between us. Given my experience with Mr. Gold, I am apt to be overly sensitive to boorishness, but no woman need tolerate such behavior. I shuddered with fear and quickly, clumsily stepped backward. He laughed heartily, and I reprimanded myself for giving him such pleasure. I would think him merely a buffoon if he did not seem so menacing and vulgar. Of even greater concern, however, was a veiled threat that he would expose our little arrangement with the Cemetery Committee.

“You wouldn’t want Simeon to lose his job, now would ye? Now how about we share a little nip?”

Monty threw open the cabin door before I could think of how to stop him. The whiskey bottle was hidden from my view, but Monty determined its location in no time at all, and helped himself to a jigger or two. However shaken I was inside, I stood my ground, and insisted that he leave. Softened by the liquor, he acquiesced with a pledge to return later. And, then, Heaven help me, I fled, some strange amalgam of anger and shame driving me away.

My accommodations here have become quite comfortable, as I have grown fond of Simeon and he has shown nothing but respect for my privacy. But I must concede this arrangement is not merely unorthodox; it is hypocritical. If I am to fight for the rights of women, I must also be willing to be an equal partner. I should not stay here, however civilized our unspoken agreement. Even if I am able to swallow the humiliation that might ensue, to ignore the whispers labeling me a fallen woman, I should, under any circumstances, be willing and able to contribute to our finances.

The ferryman was happy to accept the few coins still in my possession, and I trudged aboard like a deceased soul crossing the river Styx, worrying all the while what would happen to me, and if I had caused even more trouble for Mr. Small. But by the time we arrived at the wharf in Portland, I had resolved to seek and find employment. With the success of The New Northwest newspaper, Mrs. Duniway might need an additional writer, I conjectured. Or perhaps Garrett Duncan could find a spot for me in his print shop for the sake of my dear old Da and that funny “brother” of mine named Swoop.

Mrs. Duniway had no such position for me, though her words of encouragement are not to be dismissed lightly.

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